


Good Fences Make Good Neighbours

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 05:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: The doors to BHES's library swing open ten minutes later, and in walkshim: Christopher Argent—  Peter’s next door neighbour and nemesis— disheveled and wearing nothing but a white t-shirt that clings to the curve of his biceps and the trim line of his waist.“Sorry I’m late,” he says, and launches into a brief explanation about how some kid got stuck up in a tree or whatever, because on top of being a single father, business owner, and the thorn in Peter’s side, Argent also volunteers with the local fire brigade, and now apparently the PTA. He’s everywhere Peter turns.The fact that Malia absolutely hates Allison justifies Peter’s dislike of the entire Argent line. No one can convince him otherwise.





	Good Fences Make Good Neighbours

Peter wears a charcoal grey v-neck, just a finger too low cut to be decent, with a slate blue jacket that brings out the colour of his eyes thrown over it to the first PTA meeting of the year. Because first impressions are important and he wants the rest of the parents eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of it if he’s going to do this at all. Fifteen minutes in, his plan is working. He has half the moms either blushing or cooing over him, and some of the dads are sneaking glances. 

The doors to BHES's library swing open ten minutes later, and in walks _him_ : Christopher Argent— Peter’s next door neighbour and nemesis— disheveled and wearing nothing but a white t-shirt that clings to the curve of his biceps and the trim line of his waist. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, and launches into a brief explanation about how some kid got stuck up in a tree or whatever, because on top of being a single father, business owner, and the thorn in Peter’s side, Argent also volunteers with the local fire brigade, and now apparently the PTA. He’s everywhere Peter turns. 

The fact that Malia absolutely hates Allison justifies Peter’s dislike of the entire Argent line. No one can convince him otherwise.

Also, the very first day that the Argents moved in next door to the Hales, Chris Argent started trimming the hedge separating their lawns without so much as a by your leave, cutting them down nearly two feet in height. 

Peter almost drove his car into the garage door when he saw that, scrambling out to demand answers. So he was a little territorial— he had every right, they were his hedges and he had grown them to that very specific height so that he didn’t have to see the Templetons (pixies, honestly) and they couldn’t spy on him every single time he was out there doing yard work. Luckily, the Templetons had packed up and moved recently. Unluckily, whoever had moved in was already in Peter’s bad books.

“What,” he said, “do you think you’re doing?” 

His mystery neighbour had shrugged off his protective earmuffs and turned off the power saw and looked Peter up and down twice before he found his tongue and said, “Trimming the hedge.” 

“My hedge,” Peter said. “Not yours.” He gestured at the matching one on the other side of his driveway, separating his house from the Shirleys on the other side. 

“Oh,” Mystery Neighbour said. He was frowning a little now. “Sorry. I didn’t realise— thought I’d be doing us both a favour. It looked like it needed a trim. I just moved in next door, I thought it was my hedge.” 

“Well you thought wrong,” Peter hissed. 

“I said I was sorry.” 

“Leave my hedge alone,” said Peter and turned to leave. 

“Wait,” Terrible, Thoughtless Neighbour said, running his fingers through his hair. He looked frustrated. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot. I’m Chris Argent.” He held out a hand. 

Peter looked at it, his expression glacial. “Try again when the hedge has grown back everything you cut from it.” 

In retrospect, Peter may have been overreacting, but he’s heard the name Argent before. Every supernatural with a lick of common sense has— they’re a family of hunters with a lineage nearly as long as the Hales. Most of them were either in France proper or up north in Canada or better yet, behind bars for illicit hunting practices. Silver tarnished when left uncared for. 

And now he has one living next door. But Peter never catches a whiff of wolfsbane on Argent whenever they do cross paths— only leather and gun oil and something spicy warm underneath it all. Later on, when he does his own digging, he finds that this particular Argent is something of the black sheep of the family, which is to say, removed from hunting. It’s only somewhat reassuring. 

Peter has, since then, ignored every attempt on Argent’s part to mend fences. The hedge’s mutilation was three months ago, at the start of summer. It’s grown something like two inches in that time.

Maybe he should have agreed to live with Talia at the pack house or at least on one of the properties nearby, but as much as he loves his sister, they have a tendency to clash in too close proximity. It’s the same for Malia and the vast majority of her cousins. She has a bad biting problem. 

Of course, Peter feels vindicated in his grudge against Chris Argent when he gets a call from Malia’s school in the middle of the day; something about an incident involving her punching another student. 

He arrives at the principal’s office at the same time as Chris Argent, cuts in front of him, and sweeps in. 

Malia is unmarked, of course. Scowling, but that’s her default expression. Her arms are crossed and she’s sullen. The little girl sitting next to her has a rapidly bruising cheek and a scowl to match Malia’s. She must be Chris Argent’s daughter. Peter ignores her and drops down next to Malia, hand smoothing down her messy hair and sweeping over her back. 

Both girls end up with a warning for fighting and a relatively light punishment. Mixed schools spelled for more chaos and as long as no one was dead or grievously injured, it was considered minor. Peter doesn’t so much as glance at Argent throughout the entire ordeal, keeping his gaze level with the principal, promising that he would make sure Malia understood this sort of behaviour is unacceptable. The usual lip service. He swings Malia up onto his hip even though it will wrinkle his Dior suit and swans out of the office. 

“Why were you fighting the Argent girl?” he asks Malia in the car. 

“She said her dad is way better than you are,” Malia says from the backseat. “And I told her she was wrong but then she said that you’re a bad man so I punched her.” She added proudly, “It was a good punch. Her eye was turning purple!”

Little monster. He shouldn’t be going all gooey over this, but he adores Malia in all of her stubborn ferocity and loyalty. He can’t help it. 

“You still have to write her an apology,” Peter tells her.

Malia pouts. 

“And we’ll discuss the best ways to get revenge without getting caught later. Now, do you want your favourite for dinner?” 

“Yes! Mac and cheese, mac and cheese, mac and cheese, Daddy!” 

“Mac and cheese for you it is,” he says, and that’s the end of that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The PTA meeting goes smoothly. With that many parents in the cafeteria, Peter never has to directly address Chris, preferring instead to chat with his nearest neighbours. He draws more than one laugh, and all in all, it’s both a productive and successful meeting. 

Of course, something has to ruin it. 

Argent catches up with him at the tail end of the meeting. What Peter doesn’t see is how his gaze drags over the arch of his neck to the sculpt of his collarbones, and lower yet to the exposed sliver of chest. 

No, he’s too busy picking up speed so Argent will stop following him. He fails. 

“Peter,” Argent says after a minute of Peter speed walking and Argent speed walking after him. Which is just presumptuous, because they sure as hell aren’t on first name terms.

Peter says without turning, “What?” 

Argent falls into line beside him and their shoulders brush. Peter stiffens and draws just out of reach. Argent seems to get the hint, taking a step away. He says, “Do you mind dropping me off? A buddy drove me here from the station.” 

It’s impossible for Peter to refuse without causing a scene when all the other parents are in the middle of leaving around them, especially since the two of them are headed in the same direction. He nods. “Fine.” 

The drive passes in silence aside from the background noise of the radio, which is just how Peter would prefer any drive with Chris Argent to go. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you wear something that isn’t a suit,” Argent says, breaking the precious, peaceful silence. 

“Only an overcompensating asshole like Whittemore would show up in a suit to a PTA meeting.” 

Argent’s laugh seems torn out of him unwillingly, a startled, pleased rumble of a thing. He doesn’t say anything after that. He fidgets in his seat, drumming his fingers on his thigh while looking out the window. 

Peter notices because the movement, while he’s driving, is distracting. 

They’re pulling into Peter’s driveway when Argent says, “It’s a good look.” 

“Of course it is.” Peter would never be caught dead wearing something that doesn’t flatter his best features. He cuts the engine and climbs out of the car. Argent follows suit. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

Again, Peter nods. 

“Listen, Peter—” 

“Daddy!” Malia bolts out of the front door, colliding with Peter’s legs hard enough for him to feel blood vessels breaking and repairing under his skin. She buries her face against his stomach and whines in the back of her throat, pleased. 

Laura strolls out of the house after her, waving at Peter. “Hey, Uncle Peter.”

Peter pays her, and in the background, he vaguely registers movement and noise from the house on the other side, Argent doing the same thing with his babysitter no doubt. He doesn’t think much of whatever it was Argent had been about to say before they were interrupted, waving and watching Laura drive off before disappearing inside, Malia in tow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next time Peter has the misfortune of seeing Argent at a PTA sanctioned event is at the bake sale. It’s running all month and Peter could have sworn that Argent isn’t supposed to be on shift this particular day, which is why he chose it. But there he is, helping set up the tables in a black t-shirt with the collar so stretched out it looks in danger of slipping right off of Argent’s shoulder. Argent never seems to venture much beyond functional for his wardrobe, but he should have tossed this shirt out long ago and replaced it. Whatever. 

(Besides, it isn’t like Peter could judge: he’s wearing something similar in grey, only the dip of his collar is very much on purpose. It’s strategic.) 

“Where’s Marnie?” he asks by way of hello. Marnie is the kitsune who should have been here with her son instead of Argent and his daughter. Malia, at his side, flashes her eyes at Allison. Peter squeezes the nape of her neck, and she squirms in protest. 

“She switched shifts with me,” Argent says, smoothing the wrinkles out of the tablecloth. 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Is she sick?” 

Argent pauses and says, “I asked her to switch. This shift works better for me.” 

Well. That’s that. It isn’t like there’s anything Peter can do about it. They’re already at the farmer’s market; two of the parents, a wood nymph and her partner, run it. Hence Beacon Hills Elementary having a free booth here to raise money. 

Peter baked most of it the previous night. There was an assortment of fudge brownies, rich and creamy on the tongue, gingersnaps that carried just the right amount of crisp crack when bit into, and butterscotch pretzel bars. He likes baking just fine, and it’s more personalised than store bought Krispy Kreme fundraising donuts. The table’s divided into two: Peter and Malia with the pastries; Argent and Allison with what looks like— Peter takes a closer look at the leather and metal bracelets and necklaces— protective talismans. Interesting. When he sniffs them, he smells ozone. 

“Allison,” Argent says when he catches Peter inspecting the charms. “She has a little bit of—” He waggles his fingers. 

A spark, Peter assumes. 

Malia looks at the talismans, unimpressed. “You can’t eat them.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Allison fires back.

“Then what are they good for?” 

“Protecting against—” 

“Allison,” Argent says warningly. 

Peter rolls his eyes and takes one of the brownies from the table, handing it to Malia. “Behave  
yourself.” 

She bares her fangs at him around a mouthful of chocolate, and he flicks her on the nose. It’s going to be a long morning. 

But whatever reservations he had about running a booth with Argent remain unfounded. Malia and Allison are a hit with the farmer’s market crowd, Malia’s complete lack of self-consciousness and brazen nature coupled with Allison’s sweeter smile sells plenty between them. Child exploitation does pay off, Peter thinks idly. 

Of course, everything goes to shit when a wyrm— a wyrm, of all fucking things— crashes into the stall two down from them. It crushes part of the handmade soap display on the far side of the honey booth, a cacophony of fragrance perfuming the air. Complete pandemonium reigns for a minute. People screaming, the soap vendor desperately trying to carry whatever he could of his wares away in both arms, the honey supplier fled entirely the moment a lick of flame from the wyrm made its appearance. Argent instantly puts himself in front of his daughter, so at least he has that going for him.

Peter’s hackles were up. He shoved Malia under a table and headed for the wyrm. The snarl rips itself from his throat when Argent tries to get in front of him. “Get out of my way, Argent!” 

“I’m trying to help,” Argent has what looks like an electric baton drawn, and who the hell carries that to the farmer’s market? trying to get a clear shot at the wyrm wreaking havoc. It isn’t actually doing much aside from eating through the entire stock of local, raw honey, and occasionally snuffling flames, so Peter huffs loudly before going to check up on the girls, who haven’t moved from under the nearby table. He lifts the tablecloth.

“Your father has a hero complex,” he tells Allison. 

She sniffs and crosses her arms, sticking her nose up in the air. “Because he’s a good person. He was helping you.”

“Well, I didn’t need that help, I’m a werewolf,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. Malia, at his side, glowers at Allison. “Let’s get you two out of here while that mess is taken care of.” 

He steers the girls out of the immediate vicinity of the wyrm and the few people trying to subdue it alongside Argent. There’s a stall selling corn on the cob on the opposite side of the market and it was nearly lunchtime anyway. The three of them are munching away by the time the sirens come to a stop in the parking lot. They return to relative calm and their mostly unscathed table with pretzels in brown paper bags, Peter watching Beacon Hills’ finest dump the wyrm into the back of a truck. 

Relief breaks over Argent’s face when he spots Allison. He looks no worse for wear. A bit sweaty and a corner of his shirt was torn, but otherwise unscathed. It was only a wyrm. Allison runs to her dad, and Argent picks her up effortlessly.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” he tells Peter. A bead of sweat drips down the tendon of his neck. 

Peter waves dismissively. “It’s nothing.” 

“You didn’t bring me a pretzel,” Argent says, looking at the pretzels, then at Peter. 

“You were the one who wanted to fight the wyrm,” Peter says. The pretzel is warm brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top, soft and chewy. 

“I’ll share,” Allison says instantly, glaring at Peter. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“Daddy,” Malia says, “can we go now?” 

He ruffles her hair. “Yeah, let’s pack up and do that.”  
  
  
  
  
  
“We aren’t setting very good examples for our kids,” Argent says to Peter over the hedge one evening. This is the Friday after Allison and Malia's third spat and them being called into the principal’s office. 

Peter makes a noncommittal noise, more interested in waxing the paint job on his car to a brilliant sheen than talking to Chris Argent. He buffs smooth, even circles onto the hood. 

“Peter.” 

The hedge rustles and Peter says without looking up, “Don’t even think about setting a foot on my driveway. And stop spying on me.” 

“It’s been months and you’re still mad about the hedge?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

“That was one mistake.” 

“A mistake that has yet to be rectified.” 

Because Argent wouldn’t be able to speak to Peter over the hedge if it is at its full seven feet of height and glory instead of the pitiful five and some change that it’s been reduced to. 

“Forget about that,” Argent says. “Our daughters. They keep up this fighting and they’re going to get in serious trouble.”

“Your daughter will get in trouble,” Peter corrects. “Malia will be fine.” 

“All I’m saying is that I think if we show them that we can get along, they’ll stop fighting and we’ll stop getting the Look from the principal.” 

The Look, capital L and all, of disappointment Principal Yukimura has taken to giving them since the second time Allison and Malia fought, presumably. Peter’s largely impervious to it by sheer virtue of character that has led him to disregard most authority figures throughout his entire life, but something about Yukimura’s _I know you can be a better parent than this_ stare does cut to the quick. 

Peter sighs. He folds the rag he’s using into a neat square and turns around to face Argent. “And how do you propose we do that?” 

“Let’s take them somewhere together. The park or a museum. Maybe the Academy of Sciences?” 

“Malia hates museums.” The Academy of Sciences is wonderful and maybe in a few years she’ll enjoy it but the last time they went all she could talk about was how the penguins looked like they’d make for a good meal and how she wanted to fight the alligator and everything was too much like school pretending to be fun. But he concedes, “She likes the amusement park.” 

Something in Argent’s face clears up and he nods. “Allison likes it too. How about this Saturday?” 

“Fine. We’ll meet you there at eleven.” 

Argent nods. “Works for me.” 

“If that’s all,” Peter says crisply. 

“Wait, one more thing.” Argent vanishes back inside his house and returns with a large pot. He holds it over the hedge, muscles standing out stark in his forearms. “Here.” 

Peter studies it. All his nose smells under the lid is something fragrant and delicious. Beef and the faint tanginess of red wine. “What is that?” 

“Boeuf bourguignon. It’s for you and Malia.” Argent’s pronunciation is flawless. 

Peter doesn’t know why he takes it. Under the clear lid is a medley of tender beef, bacon, and porcini mushrooms. He narrows his eyes at it, then at Argent. “Why?” 

“I made extra.” 

No uptick in heartbeat, but hunters often trained themselves out of that and learned how to lie to supernatural beings without giving themselves away. It isn’t entirely out of line with Chris Argent’s campaign of neighbourly friendliness and neither does it smell poisoned. No, the stew bears all the promise of a good meal. But it feels like more. Coming from anyone else, from another werewolf, Peter would think this a declaration of some sort. 

It can’t be. 

“You made extra accidentally, or you made extra with the express purpose of sharing?” Peter asks. 

Argent says nothing for a good minute, and just as Peter’s getting impatient, a wry smile breaks out over his face. The corners of his eyes crinkle and the blue of them softens and he is disgustingly handsome for a single heartbeat. He’s wearing another low cut shirt again— all that he ever seems to wear around Peter now— the line of his neck on display. It makes Peter want to bite and he immediately resents Argent for that. 

Oh. _Oh_.

Everything clicks.

“Think of it as a peace offering,” Argent says. “We’re going to be neighbours for a while and I want to get to know you better, Peter.” 

Which, reading between the lines, is a very diplomatic and cautious way of saying Argent has every interest in getting into his pants. Not a first for Peter. If Argent were anyone else, Peter would entertain the idea. It isn’t the fact that Christopher Argent is still an Argent, still has ties with hunters for all that he claims he doesn’t, holding him back. Argent has proven himself harmless enough for one of his kind.

No, Peter’s problem with Argent is the fact that he cut down his hedge and Peter does not forgive nor forget easily. 

“You want to fuck me,” Peter says, ready to tell Argent that he’d have better luck getting Peter to swallow wolfsbane than climbing into bed with him.

Argent blushes, honest to god blushes, and clears his throat. “No,” Argent interrupts, and just as Peter’s about to call him out on the lie, Argent continues, sure and steady, “Not yet. What I’m going to do is court you, Peter.” 

Peter nearly drops the boeuf bourguignon on his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> OR AS I CALL THIS FIC: in which chris desperately tries to get peter to notice him and like him but peter is completely oblivious and also a petty bastard for 3000 words. 
> 
> i have about two more fics written for petopher week, but maybe i'll manage to squeeze another out!
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://corrosivity.tumblr.com/)


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